You Can't Judge a Book
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: Ficlit for the 2018 Short Story Challenge. [Early days of the team]. People are like books; your first impressions are made by what you see on the cover. But the pages often run far deeper than you expected, and James Kinchloe learns this of those who will eventually become his closest comrades in his part of the war.


Notes: This is my entry for the 2018 Short Story Speedwriting Challenge; I opted for an early days piece, this time Kinch-centric, though the other Heroes all have parts to play. Thanks to Belphegor for help with the French dialogues!

* * *

Kinch could still remember the words his mother told him before he had reported to the Army Air Corp.

"Remember, James—how we live life is different from the way others live their lives. You're going to see things and people that will make you question anything and everything you ever knew. But don't expect to be solving those mysteries, James. Life teaches only one thing – there are no answers. You keep your head down and stay safe, James—you come back to us, you understand?"

Confirming that he had understood her message hadn't stopped the lecture from continuing.

"There's one other thing, James—one other, very important thing. You're going to be among strangers—people who won't know you and who you really are. A lot of them are going to go by what they see; you don't owe them a thing. But there will be those who will see past that—who will stick their necks out for you; you hold on to them, James. Your life—all of your lives—could depend on that."

He had assured her that he had understood that, as well. And, once he'd left to join the Air Corps, had kept that in mind.

Finding people he could trust, however, had been a challenge—and he certainly never expected to find them in a prisoner-of-war camp in the middle of Germany. From the first day he had been forced into Barracks Two after getting captured, he had been resigned to passively spending the remainder of the war here, among total strangers who would more or less ignore him (Kinch knew from experience that, sometimes, not getting a second glance was the best he could hope for).

After about an hour, which had been spent trying to get used to his uncomfortable bunk, Kinch had been suddenly aware of the smell of crepes. After initially dismissing it as his mind playing tricks on him, he found that the smell was persisting.

Glancing up from his bunk, he spotted a short Frenchman softly talking with a scrawny Englishman in front of the stove—holding a pan which had a crepe cooking upon it.

After days of minimal, practically inedible rations given to him by his captors, the crepe was something worth ten times its weight in gold. Kinch hopped off of the bunk, drawn to the scent like it was casting a spell over him.

A couple of the other prisoners in the barracks spotted him and scoffed; they had known from experience that the Frenchman only shared his food with that Englishman—who, half the time, didn't seem to appreciate it.

Kinch ignored the murmurs and stares, approaching the duo by the stove; the Englishman turned and noticed him, blinking in surprise at first, and then looking at him with an expression that suggested he was trying to read him. After a moment, he proceeded to give the Frenchman a nudge.

"Oi, Louis—there's a new bloke what's arrived."

Kinch realized that the Englishman's accent put him from the East End of London—"the other side of the tracks," as they'd say back in the States. Then he _had_ been trying to read him a moment ago; someone like that had to read people to survive-Kinch knew all about that, though he had to read people for different reasons. At any rate, Kinch seemed to have passed the man's initial assessment—a positive sign.

The Frenchman looked up now as the Englishman nudged him again; he, too, did a quick read, acknowledged Kinch with a nod, and turned his attention back to the crepe. The Englishman pointed at the Frenchman and silently mouthed, "Temperamental artist, he is."

Kinch looked away for a moment, seeing the hungry-looking men—all in English and American uniforms-in the barracks looking back, waiting for him to awkwardly ask for some food, only to be turned down. Kinch ignored them, clearing his throat so that the duo glanced back at him.

" _Bonjour, Monsieur_ ," he said, with a smile. " _Pardonnez mon intrusion, mais j'aimerais voir cette œuvre d'art de près_."

The Frenchman looked up again, wonder written in his face as the Englishman looked completely baffled, clearly not having expected Kinch to know French.

" _Viens t'assoir!_!" the Frenchman exclaimed, and he indicated a chair by the stove. " _Viens t'assoir, s'il te plaît_!"

Within minutes, the three of them were partaking in the crepes—the best that Kinch had ever tasted. The Englishman was still trying to figure out just what had happened, but was good-natured about it, regardless.

"Blimey, when I think about what I went through to be on civil terms with 'im, and all along, all I needed was to speak French?"

"Ah, but you are English," the Frenchman scoffed. "The Americans-we gave _them_ the Statue of Liberty, not you!" He turned to Kinch, eagerly. "Where did you learn to speak my beautiful language so well?"

"New Orleans, French Quarter," Kinch replied. "The food there was almost as good as this. These crepes are the best I've ever tasted."

"You don't 'ave to flatter 'im now," the Englishman droned.

"No, I'm serious," Kinch said. "To make food as good as this over a small stove like that? He's got to be a magician."

" _Non_ , I was merely a chef in civilian life," the Frenchman replied. "But a very excellent one, even in primitive conditions such as this. Pierre here, he is the actual magician."

"Indeed, I am," the Englishman said, a look of pride in his eyes. "Peter Newkirk. Yeah, I've performed in some of the best music 'alls in London—did the Palladium, too, before the RAF insisted upon me services…"

He extended a hand, which Kinch shook—and then paused as he found himself suddenly holding a hand of cards—a royal flush. Newkirk grinned and retrieved the cards; he was clearly very good at what he did, too.

"Louis LeBeau," the Frenchman said, extending his hand, as well. "I, too, was pulled from my civilian life to aid _La Belle France_." His expression went dark. "One day… one day, she will be free. And I pray I will be out of here to see it happen."

Kinch nodded and shook LeBeau's hand, too.

"James Kinchloe," he introduced himself. "My friends call me Kinch. I was a telephone technician in civilian life, and also did some work with radio repairs—not quite as intriguing as you two…"

It was a conversation that launched into a friendship.

* * *

As the weeks drew on and the trio's attempts at escape met with failure (in spite of Schultz begging them to stop trying and getting him into trouble), there was little to dissuade them from attempting to come up with other plans to try again—at least, until Colonel Hogan showed up. Klink had announced his arrival, claiming that the presence of a Senior POW officer would hopefully bring some discipline into the picture and halt the repeated escape attempts at long last.

Kinch, Newkirk, and LeBeau had not been impressed by this, and their decidedly negative opinions of Hogan, just shot down himself, apparently, were reinforced when he had announced an immediate cessation of escape attempts as Klink looked on smugly at the angry reactions to this.

The trio soon found themselves grumbling over it over a lunch that LeBeau had prepared as Hogan continued to speak with Klink about something.

"Who is 'e to just stop us from escaping?" Newkirk fumed, quietly. "Aside from getting out of this rathole, I've got me sister to think of!"

" _Oui_ , and I need to escape from here and join the Free French!" LeBeau insisted. "He is not of our Army; why must we listen to him!?"

"Well, you two can use that argument," Kinch sighed.

LeBeau and Newkirk looked back at him, sympathetic.

"Listen, Mate, if we do find another way out of 'ere, you can come with us—just say we forced you into it," Newkirk offered. "We know 'ow officers can get; you don't need to put up with any of that."

" _Oui_ , and we could never abandon you!" LeBeau insisted, with a nod. "You can say that you found out about us and were going to tell this _Colonel_ , so we took you to prevent that from happening-!"

He was cut off as Hogan himself entered the barracks; the trio fell silent as Hogan glanced at them, at the other men in the barracks, and then back to the trio. He approached the table, and Kinch, bound to protocol, stood and saluted him; LeBeau and Newkirk defiantly sat in their seats.

Hogan didn't seem surprised by the two Europeans' cold reception; he returned Kinch's salute and gave him a nod.

"At ease," he said. "You three are Sergeant Kinchloe, Corporal Newkirk, and Corporal LeBeau?"

"Yes, Sir," Kinch replied.

Kinch wasn't sure what to think as Hogan clearly continued surveying him; he was used to this, of course—like everyone else, officers assessed him. From experience, however, he knew that officers could often get away with saying or doing things in response to that assessment that others might not be able to do.

LeBeau and Newkirk seemed to sense this, however; they finally got up and stood on either side of Kinch. To their surprised, Hogan seemed pleased by this reaction.

"Now that's what I like to see," he said. "A unified front. We're all on the same side here."

"Are we… Sir?" Newkirk asked, pointedly, adding the "Sir" as an afterthought. "You seem to be insisting that we make life easier for the Germans by stopping all of our escape attempts."

"Yes, I said that," Hogan admitted. "Now let me tell you why. My capture wasn't incidental; I was instructed by General Butler of the United States Army, working with British Intelligence, to start an underground operation to aid downed Allied fliers and prisoners of war in escaping German soil—and, if possible, perform a bit of spying while we're here. So, you see, it's important that we have no escapes in Stalag 13, to prevent the discovery of such an operation."

The trio stared at Hogan for a moment before exchanging stunned glances of disbelief with each other.

"…Right, what's the game?" Newkirk asked, looking back at the colonel. "I don't think I quite understand the joke."

Hogan didn't seem the least bit phased.

"I knew that convincing you that I'm serious will be difficult," he said. "But, I can assure you that I'm being quite serious—the location was picked out by Nimrod of British Intelligence; he's deep undercover here in Germany—even I don't know who his identity is, but he's been able to observe the goings on of Stalag 13 very thoroughly and was able to communicate to me everything I needed to know. It was he who gave me your names as soldiers to seek out as core members of this team. Corporal LeBeau, I was informed that you are an excellent chef, and you have a connection with the Sergeant of the Guard to get you ingredients to cook, which is otherwise against the rules?"

LeBeau glanced at the lunch on the table, realizing that it was futile to deny that when the evidence was right there in front of him.

" _Oui_ , I can cook, but help people escape and perform espionage? Those are different things… _Colonel_ ," he added.

"Different things that would ensure that we were no longer protected under the Geneva Convention," Newkirk said. "I don't reckon I like the sound of that—I want to get out of 'ere, it's true…. But I want to get out of 'ere _alive_."

"You'd be one to pull that off," Hogan said. "You're Corporal Newkirk? I was told you were a master performer and magician, and also an expert pickpocket, burglar, and safecracker. Nimrod has noticed that you seem to be able to raid Klink's schnapps stores with impressive frequency."

"…Like Louis says, Colonel, it's quite a different animal from spying and sabotage…". Newkirk was genuine this time.

"And you're Sergeant Kinchloe," Hogan said. "You know your way around communications equipment; we'll be needing someone like you, too."

"No disrespect intended, Colonel," Kinch replied. "But this is… all out of left field. And how can we be sure that this is all genuine? The Germans could have gotten an imposter in here to test and see how rebellious we are—and would kill those who are."

"A fair point," Hogan said. "And I can provide some amount of proof. You're all familiar with Oskar Schnitzer, the veterinarian of Hammelburg?"

" _Oui_ , he brings new guard dogs in once a month," LeBeau said.

"Well, he's going to be arriving this evening—a special delivery of an additional dog. But in his truck, he'll also be bringing digging tools and radio equipment—and a copy of my orders from General Butler. Newkirk, you can obtain those items unseen, can't you?"

"…I can try, Colonel."

"Then that's a start; I'll see you boys again this evening," Hogan said. He paused, looking at the stew that the three were sharing. "You know, that does look good."

LeBeau, not quite sure how Hogan had successfully convinced him to part with some of his culinary creation, poured out a bowl of the stew and handed it to him.

"Thanks," the colonel offered, and he headed off in search of more men.

In the end, when Schnitzer's truck ended up making the unexpected delivery after all, Newkirk decided to pilfer the equipment and the orders, and brought them back to the barracks. After hiding the equipment, Newkirk gave the orders to Kinch, as he and LeBeau stood by for Kinch's verdict on their authenticity.

"…They look legitimate," he announced, sounding as stunned as the two corporals looked. "Fellas, I think our lives are about to change."

* * *

Kinch's assessment of the situation had been an understatement. Not only had Colonel Hogan been the real McCoy, but the colonel had stunned him further with one additional request—that Kinch not only serve as their radioman and communications expert, but also as his second-in-command. He had accepted, grateful that his initial reading of Colonel Hogan had been wrong, and for the better.

LeBeau and Newkirk had eventually agreed to lend their services, as well. Their core team grew along with their tunnel system when they successfully recruited a new transferee, Olsen. They hadn't expected any other additions to the team, but when a young tech sergeant, Andrew Carter, had ended up getting captured again after being helped to freedom once before, it was decided that he stay on—a decision that everyone was glad of when Carter eventually revealed that he knew quite a bit about demolitions, which expanded their activities from just aiding escapes and espionage to active sabotage, as well.

Carter was another challenge to read. He had hit it off with Newkirk and LeBeau quite well, though his eternal optimism seemed to grate on Newkirk's nerves at times. He was wide-eyed and eager, and Kinch wasn't sure whether that was from his youth or his personality in general.

At any rate, Carter bore no grudge against Kinch for being second-in-command, despite the fact that Carter outranked him. In fact, Carter often requested lessons on how to work a radio, figuring that if his nimble fingers could handle explosives, this was something that he could learn, too.

It was on one of these such occasions that, during a break in the lesson, Carter, who had been recently sidelined on account of a bout of the flu from which he was recovering from, had opted for a nap. Kinch continued waiting by the radio in case of any communications from LeBeau and Newkirk, who were out on a mission to meet with some new members of the local Underground when, suddenly, he heard Carter mumble something in his sleep.

It wasn't in English; Kinch recognized it as an indigenous language—very likely Lakota, based on the studying and traveling Kinch had done. And while Carter did seem like the kind of person to learn a language for the fun of it, Kinch also knew that people tended to dream in languages they had been speaking since childhood. Carter had said he had grown up in North Dakota, after all…

And yet, Carter had never mentioned anything about having Lakota heritage; of course, Kinch couldn't blame him—Kinch had more than his share of troubles from people who were close-minded. If Carter was being silent about that for that reason, then Kinch wouldn't press the matter—although he did have to take pause at the realization that their "eternal optimist" was, in fact, pessimistic about something that he should be able to take great pride in.

Kinch was jolted from his thoughts as the radio buzzed to life; it was from Tiger, delivering bad news—that the new "Underground" members were impostors, and that LeBeau and Newkirk were heading right for a deadly trap; Carter awoke in time to hear this distressing revelation.

"We've gotta stop 'em before they reach the meeting point!"

"You're in no condition to be going anywhere," Kinch said. "Wilson forbade it."

"But Louis and Peter…!" Carter said. "Olsen's on another mission; he can't go! And the Colonel is trying to stall Klink with a chess game; there won't be enough time to get him away and tell him what's going on!"

"…I'll go," Kinch declared.

Carter paused, but nodded.

"Be careful, Kinch," he said. "And take some of my smokescreen charges with you—you might need them in a tight spot!"

He didn't want to voice what he was saying—that while he, Carter, could impersonate a German officer and bluff his way out of trouble, Kinch would never be able to do the same. That was something that Kinch was painfully aware of—and why he was usually focused on radio duty.

He nodded and quickly cast aside his uniform for dark clothing, vanishing into the night as he departed from the tunnel exit. Unbidden, his mother's advice from years ago returned to his consciousness as he ran—

" _But there will be those who will see past that—who will stick their necks out for you; you hold on to them, James. Your life—all of your lives—could depend on that_."

Kinch had never expected those words to come true in Stalag 13, of all places. But it had happened. All of them—LeBeau, Newkirk, Olsen, Carter, and even Hogan himself—had ended up becoming an unexpected second family-a family that he would give anything to protect.

He moved as swiftly as he could while avoiding being spotted; his legs stung from lactic acid buildup and a pain grew in his side. But, at last, he could see his two comrades—heading for the forest clearing where the false Underground members were waiting…

Knowing that there was no time, he lit a smokescreen charge and hurled it over their heads.

"Run…!" he managed to gasp.

The two Corporals retreated instantly as Kinch, utterly exhausted, moved to seek shelter in the foliage until he recovered. The fake Underground members were opening fire, however, and LeBeau and Newkirk were pausing, trying to find him.

It was LeBeau who spotted him, and Kinch frantically tried to wave them off, insisting that they save themselves.

They were having none of it; Newkirk took his shoulders and LeBeau took his ankles, and they fled into the deeper growth until they found a place for the three of them to take cover. They waited with baited breath until the impostors ran past, still thinking they were fleeing.

When the coast was clear, there was still no time to talk—no time to take any chances; the two corporals continued to support him as they retreated back to the safety of their tunnel, where Carter and Hogan were both waiting, the worry—and now relief—evident on their faces.

And it was here, finally, that they were able to catch their breath and speak—

"Thanks, Old Chum."

" _Oui_ ; _merci_ , Kinch."

Kinch, still winded, responded with a nod.

"Thank you, too," he managed to say.

It was fortunate that they had all gotten to know each other—to continue reading each other, and learning about who they really were. They were all different books with misleading covers and deep pages—and now, today, their little library would survive another day.

And Kinch was determined that they would continue to do so.


End file.
